


To His Own Comedy

by dicks



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7265908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicks/pseuds/dicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yamamoto always knew he was an idiot. He just didn’t know of what kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To His Own Comedy

  
It started with a joke, _what I want for my birthday is you, Gokudera_ and one sentence was all it took and Gokudera was all over him. He remembered thinking, no, he remembered feeling, _this was probably love or something like that.  
_  
 _Something like that_ happened again. It was like opening a box of parodies and slipping surreptitiously deep into something that has been missing all his life and so it happened again and again and soon after, there weren’t anymore excuses, _fuck me_ and Yamamoto forsake the voice of reason in his own head. They undressed quietly in the dark over the sound of the old ceiling fan spinning slowly from the above. They crawled onto the bed, reaching, touching, groping and fucking, _fuck me, fuck me, fuck me harder_ , and later when it was over, _don’t forget to lock the door after you, idiot._  
  
Yamamoto never stayed over.  
  
Yamamoto remembered looking up from the bed, to the sight of a bared Gokudera smoking by the window. Gokudera hummed to himself when he thought no one was watching, strummed his fingers onto the windowsill and Yamamoto was trying to pretend like he hasn’t been watching.  
  
And that was when Yamamoto thought he didn’t know how to be Gokudera’s friend anymore.  
  
 _—we aren’t friends_  
  
“Say, Gokudera, what are we then?”  
  
Gokudera turned from the window, shadowed by the curtain but fully exposed; he was never one to be ashamed of his body like he was ashamed to his emotions. He stared at Yamamoto longer than necessary. “A comedy,” he said finally.  
  
“But it’s not even funny,” Yamamoto said, almost sounding like a whine.  
  
“Because you're missing the pun.”  
  
“That can’t be all.”  
  
“Do you honestly think there’d be more?”  
  
There was absence of sound and Gokudera took a step back and then another and broke it first with spite. “Look, quit dicking around already. Do you want this to stop?”  
  
Yamamoto didn’t and so he never brought up the subject over again. And later that night he let Gokudera fuck his mouth and then his ass and afterwards on the way back to his room he kept thinking about the joke he didn’t get and he chuckled to himself.  
  
-  
  
At times he was a little careless and had seemingly forgotten.  
  
Law of Gokudera’s travesty; therefore never ask for more.  
  
-  
  
It started with a joke except it wasn’t supposed to be. Yamamoto laughed with his words, grinned with his sorrows, making his way through heartbreaks with a blithe smile on his face but he meant it when he said all he wanted was Gokudera.  
  
Almost once a week they fucked on the backseat of Gokudera’s not-so-new-anymore car. The leather seats smelled like his old familiar baseball glove and he loved the deep almost crimson-black color and sometimes when it was too hot the material scorched his skin like it was on fire. And for the rest of the week, almost, they fucked on Gokudera’s dark red plain-covered sheet. Yamamoto never stayed over.  
  
But hardly ever, there would be time when they would be lying together on the bed side by side, completely drained and not screwing; and between childish wordplay and comfortable hush Yamamoto didn’t know what to make of it.  
  
“When I was a kid I dream of living in a mansion with a baseball field as the backyard.”  
  
“When I was a kid, I _owned_ a goddamn mansion.”  
  
Yamamoto had to laugh, “You’re funny.”  
  
“No shit.”  
  
“Okay, but that’s not my point.”  
  
“Would there ever be a point?”  
  
“Well yeah— there would be a point _eventually_ ,” he stretched his body over the damp sheet, feet nearly touching Gokudera’s and it felt ridiculously like home, “—at some point.”  
  
“Smartass.”  
  
“You think so?”  
  
Gokudera snorted and Yamamoto laughed at his own humorless humor.  
  
-  
  
At night Yamamoto dreamt of the fathomless tales. There was a carousel one time, with flashes of colors and small houses made out of cardboard and another time there was inferno in blue with faceless people screaming and running for their lives and the songs that never ended. And once Gokudera and he were stacking paper cups by the sidewalk until it was almost as high as the electric pole and they were laughing, and still laughing as the paper cups tower tumbled down on them. But sometimes in his dream, Yamamoto felt as if he was engulfed in his own blood and clandestine and he would thrash in his sleep and the moment he opened his eyes, he _opened_ his eyes and he could almost taste the metallic tang on his tongue.  
  
Some days, when he was lucky enough Yamamoto didn’t dream at all.  
  
-  
  
Some other days Yamamoto was just. _Couldn’t_.  
  
-  
  
Elsewhere ceased to exist with Gokudera’s pale fingers on his balls and they slowly traveled up to the base of Yamamoto’s cock before running his thumb over the shaft.  
  
“When I was a kid I dreamt of having a star named after me.”  
  
“But what about now—ww?” he stumbled on his last word because his cock was slick with lubricant and saliva and twitching in Gokudera’s palm.  
  
Gokudera looked thoughtful for a moment. “But now all I have is this idiot on my bed, spreading himself bare—"  
  
"—just for you."  
  
"—just for me. And I—” he said, shifted and then suddenly he was straddling Yamamoto’s thighs, hands gripping the hips, “—and I’m going to ride this said idiot and pound myself on his cock deep and deeper until he comes screaming my name over and over.”  
  
“God _damn_ — Gokudera please—”  
  
Yamamoto always knew he was an idiot. He just didn’t know of what _kind._  
  
-  
  
What started with a joke would end with a joke and Yamamoto thought he was probably selfish for mercilessly wishing for something even greater. _Stay with me_ , he wanted Gokudera to say or _this is real, this is so unbelievably real, and there is always you and me and there’s also ‘us’_ , because Yamamoto wanted something more than just mindless fucking, he wanted tomorrow in a form of forever and because his selfishness was madly painted in metaphorical green and gradually breaking into half, Yamamoto could no longer contain himself.  
  
“Is it because of Tsuna?”  
  
“Yeah, what about Tenth?”  
  
“That you— somehow would never—”  
  
“What! You think that I what— holy, moronic fuck!”  
  
“I’m sorry but hey—”  
  
“The hell bastard! I don’t even—and no and you—” Gokudera hissed, “—you.”  
  
After the slamming of the door, the silence was daringly loud.  
  
-  
  
Three and half days after not speaking and two days after Gokudera volunteered himself for an incognito mission in Genoa _with_ Hibari, Yamamoto found himself breaking into Gokudera’s room, lying on the bed and incredibly alone. Halfway between self-pity and remorse and the strong urge to bang his head against the wall repeatedly, he saw for the first time the things he had failed to see.  
  
But it couldn’t be, he thought, it couldn’t be because he had been watching— always been watching. Looking back he saw Gokudera’s lazy smirk when he said _fuck off and die_ , the way he lit his cigarette and sat on the uncomfortable chair at the corner of the room, unguarded and stared into nothing for the longest time, the way he scowled when he said _move over dickhead_ and— and it wasn’t anything new, really, Yamamoto just happened to _miss_ it.  
  
Because he always knew he was an idiot. He just didn’t know of what _kind_.  
  
Back then after Gokudera had kicked him in the gut for almost getting himself killed, Gokudera had him pinned against the bathroom tiles with his two fingers probing Yamamoto’s ass, teeth scraped the skin above his shoulder and growled, _what the fuck were you thinking back there—_ and Yamamoto grasped his own cock and stroked it because he _wasn’t_ thinking and spread his legs even wider. And afterwards while balancing himself against the tiles with his cum-smeared hand, he said, breathless, “I don’t get it, why were you so angry?”  
  
“I wasn’t.” Gokudera had muttered, stiffened and then pulled his cock out.  
  
-  
  
Most of the time he had seemingly forgotten and was perhaps a little ignorant.  
  
Law of Gokudera’s propensity; therefore open, open your eyes wide.  
  
For the striped blue dress shirt with a point collar, long sleeves with a one-button barrel cuff and side back pleats that was one size bigger.  
  
For the new Aquafresh Deep Action toothbrush with soft-flexible-head that was unopened with the price tag still attached on the bathroom sink.  
  
For the _1973,[Bang the Drum Slowly](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bang_the_Drum_Slowly_%28film%29)_ widescreen original DVD carefully stacked between _A Bronx Tale_ and _Suicide Kings_ on the bookshelf.  
  
Yamamoto couldn’t help but to wonder if _he_ was the joke.  
  
-  
“Yamamoto.”  
  
“Gokudera.”  
  
“You broke my motherfucking door.”  
  
“But there’s a shirt in my size in your closet!”  
  
-  
  
It wasn’t really a joke, _you love me, I know now that you do,_ and like a hurricane Gokudera tackled him down to the floor, punched him on the ribcage, twice, and so hard that he could hardly breathe but he couldn’t remember how afterwards they ended up fucking on the carpet, _I want to fuck you, fuck you, inside you,_ and later it was the peak of dawn and Yamamoto was still there, _don’t forget to fix the door, you brainless idiot._  
  
Yamamoto was a happy idiot.  
  
-


End file.
